


Newsflash

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: IT'S NOT STEVIE surprise surprise, M/M, There's another cameo from someone I won't mention, but yall are all un-pg anyway aren't u i see u, slightly un-pg13 language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"someone please write the fic where gary has to explain to the class of 92 that he's been shagging a scouser and hilarity ensues. it's all i've been waiting for." - Anonymous</p>
            </blockquote>





	Newsflash

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u anon for giving me the best prompt like ever  
> im just sorry it took so long to write >.>

**1\. Scholesy**

Scholesy is his best friend, and there are some things you have to tell best friends before you tell anyone else. Unfortunately, Scholesy is also the winner of the Most Likely To Judge All Life Choices With Constant Sneer On Face award twenty-eight years running, which is not the best sort of best friend to have. Gary swallows as he looks up from his sweating palms to meet Scholesy's suspicious stare. 

"W h a t," Scholesy says, doing that thing where he makes the spaces between letters become apparent even when Gary can't actually see them.

"I, uh." Gary flushes and lays his head on the table, burying his face in his hands. "Have something to tell you." 

Scholesy gives him a look longer than Liverpool's wait for the premier league (Gary makes a mental note regarding banter for his next date with Jamie) before his lip curls. ".....obviously," he drawls in his best Alan Rickman impression, which is eerily uncanny.  

"You can't judge me," Gary warns. 

Scholesy rolls his eyes. "As I'm sure we'll see in a few minutes, I'm perfectly capable of judging you, have done so before, and will gladly do so again. Now don't be the embarrassment that was Arsene Wenger's 1000th game and spit it out." 

Playing against West Brom had left Gary wanting to bury himself in a hole, never to be seen again. This is the same, except that it's probably going to be Scholesy doing the digging. Gary takes a deep breath and mumbles as quickly as he could, "I'mseeingCarragher." 

"Just because I mumble enough for twenty people doesn't mean I understand it when others do, Gaz. Will you just fucking tell me already?" 

"You know Carragher, right?" 

"If by 'know' you mean 'would gladly slap if the opportunity arises', yes, I know him." 

"I'm seeing him." 

Scholesy blinks, which is mildly frightening.

"Well. I would expect that. The people you work with tend to be visible." 

"No, Scholesy. I'm  _ seeing  _ him. Like. I've been to his apartment and. Done stuff." 

Scholesy doesn't blink, which is even more frightening.

"Scholesy?" Gary is starting to think that he may have killed him, which would both solve his problems as well as create additional ones. 

"Do you remember my tackle on Reyes?" Scholesy finally speaks, his words taking the longest of times to leave his mouth. 

It's the youtube video anyone (Jamie) brings up whenever they're trying to prove that Scholesy was an awful player. Gary gulps. "Yeah." 

"That is how hard I am judging you right now." 

Gary exhales with a little relief. "I thought you were going to two-foot me in front of everyone." 

"I might. I haven't decided that yet." 

There is uncomfortable, and then there is just-told-Paul-Scholes-you're-shagging-a-Scouser uncomfortable. Gary squirms in his seat and prays fervently that he will still be alive twenty four hours from now.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Scholesy exhales and pushes his half-uneaten chocolate cake away from him. In spite of the situation, Gary involuntarily reaches for it. Scholesy slaps his hand away.

"You are not allowed to have free food when you're banging Jamie sodding Carragher." 

"But he's nice," Gary whines. "Can't I have my cake and eat him too?" 

He'd actually meant to say it the other way round, but the colour that Scholesy's face turns at the mention of anything lewd is always a sight to behold. Scholesy throws his napkin in Gary's face, mumbles something about a baseball bat and a body bag, and storms out of the restaurant. Gary stuffs the cake into his mouth, leaves by the back entrance, and doesn't go back to his apartment for the next two weeks.

 

**2\. Phil**

Gary's been on the run for approximately 15 days, two hours and forty-seven seconds when Scholesy finally corners him by the Krispy Kreme cabinet in the Tesco near Jamie's. "I knew I'd find you here," he growls, once again redefining the amount of menace which five foot six gingers should have been capable of. "You reek of Liverpool." 

"I'm shagging one Scouser, not the whole fucking team," Gary protests, trying in vain to reach the glazed raspberries, a task made astoundingly difficult by a man 11cm shorter than him. 

"One, a hundred, same difference. It's not called sleeping with an enemy, Neville, it's sleeping with  _ the _ enemy. It might as well be Jordan fucking Henderson sucking your - " 

" _ We are in public _ ," Gary hisses, abandoning his donut for the moment in order to clamp a hand over the bastard's mouth. Already some people are looking at them weirdly. "Please don't go around airing my dirty laundry. The last thing I need is a fucking Daily Mail headline going 'Gary Neville Is A Red, He Shags Scousers'." 

"They should rescind that song," Scholesy mutters bitterly. "Or at least put an asterisk with terms and conditions. 'No longer available for redemption'.  Ebay selling your testimonial programmes for 50p. Disappointed Scouse-haters hanging your shirt around Anfield." 

Gary shudders. "Will you please stop trying to guilt-trip me?" he complains, stalking out of Tesco empty-handed while Scholesy trots along to keep up with his walk. "I hate Liverpool as much as I have always done, and he knows that, and we're totally cool." 

"Who's he?" a very familiar voice chirps. Gary pauses mid-stride and turns, very slowly, to look at Scholesy. 

"N o," he says, surprised to find that he can do it too. 

"Y e s." Scholesy has two default facial expressions, wanting to watch the world burn and smirking as he burns it down, and it's the second one plastered all over his face as Phil looks back and forth between them with as much comprehension as usual. 

"Gaz, will you tell me what's going on? Scholesy essentially kidnapped me and drove me here and hasn't said a word other than 'bollocks'." 

His brother's worried expression, as well as the pointed look on Scholesy's face (and by pointed Gary really means would kill him if he didn't), makes Gary mumble the truth. "I'm dating Carragher," he mutters under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring resolutely at the ground. 

Scholesy looks at Phil expectantly. " _ Well _ ?"

Phil looks even more confused than on a daily basis, which is saying a lot. "I don't understand. Carbon dating? We know how old he is, why would you - " 

"Oh my god." Gary throws his hands in the air and scowls at the prospect of having to explain to his little baby brother that he enjoys having kinky sex with a Scouser on occasion. Upon further illumination, Phil pales.

"This is awful," he wails, and Scholesy nods pointedly. 

"See? Isn't it the wor - " 

"You told  _ Scholesy  _ before you told  _ me _ ?" 

Scholesy puts his burning desire to stuff Gary in a barrel labelled 'sin bin' aside for a while to join him in staring open-mouthed at Phil. " _ What _ ?" they say in unison.

Phil looks like he's on the verge of tears. "I'm your  _ brother _ ," he whines, petulantly stamping his feet. "You've known me almost all of your life. You've only known him what, three quarters of it? THAT'S TEN YEARS MORE I HAVE ON THAT GINGER WANKER." 

There are few things more amusing than three forty-year-old ex-footballers arguing in the middle of a Tesco car park. 

"Okay, Philip, first of all, neither wanker nor very ginger anymore. Secondly, you're  _ missing the fucking point _ \- "

"Why am I being attacked for telling Scholesy first  _ \-  _ "

"I'm your brother! If you're shagging a mortal enemy you tell your brother!" 

"'Yes, Paul, this is more unnatural than Sergio Ramos going a game without being carded.' 'Thank you, Phil. Let's stand here and judge him together.' 'That sounds great, Paul. Let's do that.'" 

"Oh my god Scholesy will you just shut the fuck up about that and oh my god Phil siblings don't have to tell each other everything - "

"I don't care about that! He could fuck Gerrard all he wants and I'd still be pissed if he didn't tell me first!" 

" _ Whoa."  _ Everyone shuts up and Gary holds a hand out for silence, staring at Phil like he'd sprouted four arms and a West Ham tattoo on his chest. "Did you just - go there?" 

Phil swallows. 

"Mate," Scholesy says, shaking his head in disbelief. "You  _ need  _ to sort out your priorities."

 

**3\. David**

Of all of them, this is the one he's been dreading the most. Scholesy shoved a newspaper into his face three days ago with the headline 'BECKS BACK IN LONDON' and he still hasn't done a thing about it. Jamie is far less sympathetic than he should be. 

"Tell him he had his chance and blew it, so now I'm the one doing the blowing," he says succinctly. Gary hits him with the rolled-up newspaper. 

On the morning of the fourth day he finally squares himself up, sends  _ want to get a coffee?  _ and switches his phone screen off before he can look at it again. It buzzes almost immediately and he waves it at Scholesy, who rolls his eyes. 

"Thirteen years I've had to do this," he grumbles, but checks the message anyway. "Yeah, it's a go. Same place as last time. Winky face. I still don't think he knows what emoticons mean." 

David looks exactly the same, and for a moment Gary forgets to breathe, allowing his heart to pause as he traces the curve of the smile. "Surprised you got in without the paps," he says finally, looking down at the coffee David's ordered.

"Oh, they're probably skulking around somewhere." David gives him a conspiratorial grin, the sort they'd used to throw around when they'd had Turf Wars with Butty and Giggsy. "I did wear, like, an awful touristy hat and a scarf. That probably helped some." 

Gary chuckles, remembers why he's there, and stops abruptly. If he was the type to dig his fingernails into his palms so hard that they started bleeding, he would have. Bleeding palms, however, make it difficult to eat sandwiches, so he contents himself with a nervous twitch as he says, "Er. Becks. I've got something to tell you." 

David arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Or pedicured. Gary still doesn't know the difference and David's been trying to teach him for years.

"I, uh. Need to tell you something." 

"Y-es," David says slowly, a lazy smirk crossing his face. "I believe you've said that already." 

"Oh." Gary blinks and swallows. "Okay. Um. I'm going out with Jamie Carragher." 

He says it remarkably more clearly than he thought he would, and immediately feels like running out of the cafe screaming  _ OHMYFUCKINGGODWHATAMIDOING _ . David is taking it remarkably more well than he thought he would.

"All right," he says, and continues to sip his coffee. Gary stares.

"Did you hear what I said?" 

"Yeah."

"And you're  _ fine  _ with it?" 

"Yeah." David frowns. "Gary, mate, you're an adult. You can go wherever you want with whoever you want without telling me. I mean, you go out with Scholesy to that cheesecake factory all the time and you never invite me."

"That's because you're never aro - " Gary narrows his eyes. "No. That's not what I meant, Becks, jesus, not you too. How many ways of saying 'I'm banging a Scouser' are there to sodding misinterpret?" 

David puts his coffee down. Gary leans back in his chair, mildly terrified. Never has his song been so literal in accordance with the colour of his face. 

"You're. Dating.  _ Carragher _ ?" 

"See, I didn't want to say that because Phil thought it was carbon dating and who the fuck thinks of fucking carbon dating when you say dating in the first place - " 

" _ Gary _ ." 

Gary shuts up and nods meekly. David stares at him for all of ten seconds, and then bursts out into the loudest laugh Gary's ever heard from him. It's a hundred times worse than the Toothpaste Incident of 1994, which Gary still refuses to talk to Butty about. 

The reaction is slightly disconcerting. Gary folds his arms over his chest and eyeballs David. "I don't mean to, er, dictate what you should be feeling, but shouldn't you be - I don't know - angry, upset, judgmental, not-laughing?" 

David's actually wiping tears away. Gary wants to smack him.

"Sorry. Sorry. I just - did  _ not  _ expect that. I always thought it'd be Scholesy. Or even Giggsy, at a stretch." David finally manages to calm himself down at the expense of the whole cafe looking at them. "A Scouser, Jesus. Really scraping the bottom of the barrel now that I've gone, huh?" 

Gary opens his mouth and closes it again. David sees this and his face softens around the edges, fading twenty years. "Gary. I know I left first, but you did too, in the end. That's the way it goes."

Swallowing, Gary looks at his toastie as it's delivered to him. He never should've come. 

"He loves you, right?" 

David's eyes are warm. 

"Yeah." 

"And you love him?"

Gary shrugs. "He's all right in small doses." 

David bursts into another laugh and looks at Gary in mock-accusation. "You totally stole that from  _ League of Their Own. _ " 

"Oh my god, I can't believe you watch that shit." 

"I've seen that ep, what, fifty times? Could you and Redknapp really not name a single Premier League team that started with S?" 

"You know who else is an ass?" 

Becks is wrong, Gary reasons as he's on his way home, Scholesy with eighty seven text messages asking how bad he got hit. Neither of them had left, even though they'd moved on. It wasn't entirely the same thing.

He tells this to Jamie that night, and Jamie scrunches his face up. "Mate. You can't move on without leaving. That's, like, going against physics or summat." 

"Piss off," Gary says. 

"Never," Jamie says. "Not leaving and/or moving on. Deal with it, rat boy." 

Gary grins and does something sickening like snuggle up against Jamie's chest. It's the sort of thing that would have made Scholesy dig his eyeballs out with a blunt spoon and live under a rock for the rest of his life.

 

**4\. Giggsy**

Giggsy and Butty really come as a package deal (Scholesy calls them Ryanbutt; Butty loves it and Giggsy is disturbed) so Gary has to wait for days before he finally corners Giggsy alone in a corner of Carrington. Giggsy gives him a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"You sure you should be here, mate?" he asks, tossing a ball at Gary's head, which Gary initially accepts because he thinks Giggsy wants a kickabout and later throws back when he realises Giggsy wants him to help clean up. "Tongues are a'wagging. Tomorrow's headline in the Mail is going to read 'Gary Neville - Offered Job At United?'" 

"I'll take yours, mate, just you watch." Gary's almost as nervous for this as he was for Becks, because he knows that Giggsy has two pasttimes: running down the wing and making fun of a Neville brother. For obvious reasons it was usually Phil, but also for obvious reasons Gary can smell his own blood.

"Doubt that. You're hardly a prime physical specimen like I am." Giggsy flexes his bicep, which Gary admits is pretty fit for a forty-year-old, but brushes it off nevertheless given the fact that he is not here to indulge in Giggsy's weird fantasies. 

"Look, I've got more important things to talk about." 

"What's more important than my well-defined muscles?" 

This time Gary takes his choice of words very heavily into consideration. He goes with, "I'm screwing Carragher," certain that Giggsy's sick, twisted mind will at least get this one correct.

Giggsy tilts his head at him and says, "I know." 

If the deer in the headlights had been Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer minus 'rudolph the -nosed reindeer', it would have been an accurate description of Gary. "............what?" he manages to cough, after looking stupidly at Giggsy for at least a minute.

"I know," Giggsy repeats. "In fact, I don't think it's enough." 

"You don't," Gary says very slowly, the way a tortoise cross-bred with a sloth might speak if tortoisloths could speak, "think I'm screwing him enough?" 

"Well, no. You're obviously more than capable of doing it, so don't tame it for the television! Let twenty years of anti-Scouse out, y'know? Pack a couple more Liverpool jokes in, please, it's not worth my subscription money as it is." 

If Gary was ever in a habit of strangling people, and if strangulation hadn't meant jail and possible death, he would have done it to Giggsy right there and then. 

"Not  _ that  _ screwing, you knob.  _ Screwing  _ screwing. Like you and Butty. Only Scouse." 

Giggsy's jaw hits the floor. Gary can almost see the gears in his head immediately kicking into life as he tries to think of a million jokes to throw into Gary's face. 

"Neville, you are a blessing. I don't know where I'd get my entertainment from if you and Phil didn't exist. So, how much of the good-good did Carragher do to get the job?"

"None," Gary says stiffly, bravely attempting (and failing) to remain above it all. Giggsy circles ever closer. 

"Is that why you're a bit...dick-tatorial on the show?" 

"That's not even good." 

"Give me a minute, I was just informed. I can't make shagging puns on the fly." 

"That's tru - " Gary catches himself just in time and eyeballs Giggsy, whose wide eyed innocence, he reminds himself, should only work on old ladies and certain bald footballers. " _ Stop it,  _ Giggsy. This is bad enough without you making it worse." 

"I don't think 'Gary Neville is secretly fucking a Scouser' needs very much help in being made worse," Giggsy points out with unsettling accuracy. Gary steadfastly ignores this. 

"Not a word to Butty, all right? I need to tell him myself."

"Can I make little innuendos? Like playing  _ Summer of '69 _ and wiggling my eyebrows suggestively?" 

"No. And also, you're  _ always  _ wiggling your eyebrows suggestively."

"I do not." Giggsy wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Gary acquaints his face with his palm and backs out of the room inch by inch, reminiscent of that time he'd caught Phil cutting up mini-cucumbers to use for his frog spa day.

 

**5\. Butty**

The other half of Ryanbutt can normally be found sitting at his window pelting unsuspecting strangers with gobstoppers, a longstanding tradition Butty maintains was begun by the most noble and ancient Butts from 1830 onwards. Once, Phil had pointed out that they didn't have gobstoppers in the 19th century, which Butty had ignored. Another time, Scholesy had pointed out that it could have been a manifestation of dissatisfaction with his baldness, considering the uncanny resemblance to gobstoppers. Butty followed Scholesy around with a razor for days. 

Gary tells himself that it's because he's loathe to interrupt this sacred tradition, and not because he's deadly terrified of what Butty's going to come up with, that he almost turns around and runs away. Unfortunately, butty's spotted him and waves. 

"Don't just stand there, you twat," he yells through the door. "You call me at 3am every week. Any sense of propriety has long gone out the window." 

Gary opens the door and sidles in, still not able to bring himself to say a word. Butty raises an eyebrow and says, "Get laid by Carragher, did you?" 

" _ What _ ?" If Gary had been eating something he'd have choked to death right there and then. Butty blinks. 

"I mean, yesterday on MNF. He totally laid into how awful United were." 

"Oh. Right." Gary laughs nervously and takes a seat. Butty continues to stare at him. "Yeah. But we were awful, to be fair." 

"Yeah. Don't worry, though. Carragher will come." 

" _ What _ ?" 

"-Round. Stop interrupting me, Gaz. It's been going on twenty five years and I'm awfully sick of it." 

Gary's barely breathing at this point. He sinks a little deeper into the chair and refuses the glass of water that's offered to him. Butty shrugs. 

"Anyway, Carragher's a bit of a nonce when it comes to stuff like this. Finding semen hard to swallow and all." 

_ "W h a t ? _ "

"He doesn't rate goalkeepers, Gaz. Never did like Seaman. Jesus, are you all right?" 

"I'm hearing things," Gary says faintly. 

"This is because you don't drink enough water," Butty says like a mother rebuking her child, if mothers were normally more irresponsible than their children. "I told you they dehydrate you on that show. You two need to practice your positioning, he's always on top." 

Gary almost says  _ how did you know  _ but bites his tongue just in time and feels like throwing up just a little bit more. 

"Of the Getting Drinks First ladder, that is. Not that Liverpool ever are on top." Butty shoves the glass of water into his hand anyway and sits back down. "By the way, how's the guitar playing?" 

"Good, good." Gary's just glad to talk about something else that doesn't involve suspicious double entendres. "I play for the lads every Monday, actually, the camera crew loves me." 

"Are you giving lessons?" Butty takes a sip of water. "You could help Carragher finger his hole."

Gary squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself that this isn't happening. 

"-set of scales. I'm sure he knows the alphabet to G at the very least. You didn't laugh at an anti-Scouse joke, Gaz. Are you sure you're all right?" 

"Can we stop talking for a moment?" Gary mutters, feeling like flinging himself out of the window. At least it'd make a change from gobstoppers. 

"Sure." Butty nods amicably. "How about some food, a little music?" 

"Yes, please." 

"Great. I have some hot dogs left over from yesterday. We could warm those up. There's nothing like a big, hot sausage inside you on a cold day like this, as I'm sure you'd know." 

"Y'know what? I'll pass on the food." 

"Just the music, then?" 

"Just the music."

When  _ Summer of '69  _ starts playing, so does a  _ click  _ noise in his brain, and Gary reacquaints his face with his palm.

"Giggsy told you, didn't he." 

Butty smirks. 

"Well, yeah, duh. It's not like we keep any secrets from each other. He knows I'm bald."

Gary wants to punch him. Instead he grabs his coat and flies out in a huff, only to forget to take the back route when exiting and end up being pelted by a bunch of gobstoppers. What makes him sadder is that most of them hit the floor before he can catch and eat them. 

 

**6\. The Last One**

Gary comes home from work one day to find his five childhood friends waiting under a giant banner that reads CONGRATULATIONS ON FUCKING A SCOUSER. He gives them a pained smile, the sort you would get from forcing a friend to sit through a Gerard Butler movie that wasn't  _ 300  _ as he made plans to kill you immediately once the credits began rolling.

"Very funny." 

"Oh, come now. Is this any way to treat your coming out party?" Giggsy pouts. Butty pouts too.

"Don't be that guy who goes back on a lifelong promise and sleeps with the enemy, Gaz." Scholesy looks like he gives even less of a fuck than usual, which is saying a lot. "Oops. I did not mean to bring that up. I am sorry." 

"Look, we should all be happy for him, right?" Phil tries valiantly to salvage what little was left of Gary's pride. "This is good! He's happy! He's committed!" 

"He's taken  _ such _ a step down," Butty says, circling his finger around David's face. David nods in agreement. 

Gary hits him then flops into his chair and buries his face in his hands. "This doesn't get out, all right? I told you lot because you're my best friends, but no one else." 

A peculiar expression comes over all five faces. David and Phil look almost guilty, Scholesy looks like he's anticipating the downfall of humanity, and Ryanbutt look like they're going to piss themselves laughing.

"Er." 

Realisation slowly begins to dawn on Gaz's face. "Oh, no." 

"Oh, yes," says Scholesy. 

" _ You did not  _ \- "

"Oh,  _ yes _ ," says Giggsy, barely able to contain his glee. 

"I tried to stop them," says Phil, almost pleading for forgiveness. 

"I tried to help Phil," David offers, batting his eyelashes. 

"I started it," says Butty, puffing his chest out proudly.

"I can't believe this," says Gary, burying his head in his hands.

"Neither could he," says Scholesy.

 

 

Thirty miles away, in a cosy apartment overlooking the Liverpool docks, Jamie Carragher picks up the phone and says with his indecipherable accent, "H'lo?" 

He's met by an equally indecipherable accent and a voice so loud that almost blows his ear off. " _ CARRAGHER WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS I HEAR ABOUT YOU AND MY EX-CAPTAIN -  _ "  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> \- Wenger's 1000th game was the one they lost to Chelsea 6-0  
> \- Gary's last game against West Brom was sadly crap  
> \- Poor Reyes  
> \- Scholesy really is 11cm shorter than Gaz he's tiny (screams HEIGHT DIFF)  
> \- Ryanbutt was Shaz's idea  
> \- IT'S SIR ALEX IN CASE YOU DIDN'T GET IT  
> \- Thank u for reading kudosing commenting long live this ship even tho gaz is just slacking off now (as I wrote this I remembered he was coaching England that man has too many jobs)


End file.
